


Tainted Knights

by Kaoro



Series: Caped Crusaders [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: help_japan, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaoro/pseuds/Kaoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne is the Earl of Gotham, Clark Kent the son of the Lord of Smallville. One day, the taint of the city reaches the untarnished countryside. (set in the 12th century)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).



> AU. Historical. Commissionned by Mithen on the Help_Japan livejournal community's auction. Prompt: How did Clark and Bruce meet in the Caped Crusaders universe. Cue in ideas. Then a one year writer's block.
> 
> Many thanks to Mithen for her understanding, pacience and kind words. Just as many thanks for zolac_no_miko's fast and efficient beta reading. Any mistakes left are my own, born either from cheer stubbornness or the last-minutes modifications I'm prone to do.

The Earl of Gotham seldom traded the familiar corruption of his hometown for the less civilized dirt of the countryside. The extensive fields past the city’s walls provided varied enough riding space for a crepuscular escapade when the stench of dizzying perfumes over sweaty flesh grew too foul to bear. The cackle and clucking of the never-ending stroll of guests pressing past his anteroom was then replaced with the storming of horse hooves against the unfolding ground. The lengthening shadows of the night would engulf both mount and rider and, the uncoiled power of muscles speeding under his thighs, Bruce would allow himself the fantasy of freedom.

He always came back, his anger tamed by exhaustion, and returned to the moneyed gaggle of men and women strutting around his domain. No one asked about the Prince of Gotham’s recurring disappearances, the same way no one dared voice the rising suspicions over the pretty boy he had taken under his wing. The Wayne family had enough power, riches and well-placed friends to justify such eccentricity, and all things considered Lady Adele’s weekly baths of blood of lamb and ewe’s milk provided a far juicier and less hazardous gossip.

When Bruce felt particularly self-complacent, late at night, locked in his study with a glass of brandy under the affected pretence of a migraine, he would entertain the idea of moving permanently to the more rural parts of his fief, and leave his beloved Gotham to the vultures in human skin that made up the city’s high society. At which point Alfred would comment upon his master’s sorrowfulness in such a matter-of-fact fashion it was biting and Bruce would smirk, sharp teeth showing before they parted to allow the brandy in.

The threat of war all over Europe and within England itself had the nobles growing restless. Shimmering pillbox rings started filling with substances of deadly purposes, and individual samplers began following their masters from salon to salon in order to test for them. Words sweetened, swords sharpened, and eyes narrowed into wary slits gauged the backs they itched to stab. They wanted blood, Bruce acknowledged.

Very well, he would give it to them.

  


*

  


The ox refused to budge. Behind it, the plough swayed into a still. Rain splashed all over, thin and sparse yet relentless. Waving his arms over his head, Jimmy shouted something. The group stopped. Pete thrust his shovel into the ground and leaned on it with a sigh. He wiped his brow with the back of a hand, groaned in irritation.

Jimmy walked to the ox’s side, his voice gentle, his left hand reaching for the muscled neck and the right pushing at the back. The beast blinked in a lazy motion, long eyelashes over wide dark eyes; it carefully folded its forelegs in contestation, then the hinds, and laid down in the mud. The other ox stared at its lying companion and let out a groan of discomfort at the pull of the yolk.

“Come on!” Pete shouted, letting his arms fall in exasperation. The vacating ox mooed as if in answer and swished its tail.

Clark strode towards them, drenched rag held over his head that did little to protect him from the rain. The sky above was tinged a light grey, the rain a similarly coloured mist on the landscape.

Clark let out a breathy laugh, water dripping from his chin, part rain, part sweat.

“Unyoke him,” he said.

He fell into a crouch by the ox’s side, found the straps tying it to the plough. Ever helpful, Jimmy undid what was left. Towering over them, Meteor leaned on its hinds to ease the renewed burden of the yolk he now carried alone. Jimmy vainly attempted to push Comet into a standing position, to which the ox made a half-hearted attempt at rolling in the humid ground. Clark snorted softly and patted the large, sopped snout.

The ox rolled, splashing dirty water at them. They yelped and jumped to try and avoid the mud. Pete used the edge of his wet cloak to whip at the beast’s flanks.

“Come on you sloth!” he renewed the gesture. “Stand and be merry.”

The beast grunted and burrowed its head deeper into the ground before straightening. Its whole body jerked once, twice. A few more reluctant attempts and the ox found itself stabilized on its four legs. Comet sniffed the air, scratched the ground with the edge of a hoof, but otherwise didn’t move. The three men exchanged a look of exasperation. The ox blinked.

Pete waved at it in annoyance, made a strangled sound when the ox did not so much as flinch, and looked up at the stormy sky.

“This is awful,” he groaned. “We’ll never get it done in time.”

Jimmy looked horrified.

“You’re going to bring us bad luck,” he worried, looking left and right as if to make sure there were no repercussions to such words. “Knock on wood.”

Pete rapped his knuckles against the wooden length of the yolk with exaggerated solemnity. Clark grinned. They shoved one another playfully, Clark a little more carefully than the others, and watched the landscape as their chuckles subdued. To the East, flags and banners had been unfolded, exotic flowers of intricate patterns and bright colors over the dark tones of a fallow field from the Wayne fiefdom. The trees were few and far between, the forest driven back in order to bare a greater area of arable lands, and out in such an open space the half-built camp was at the mercy of the weather. Tents in the process of being raised had been left in the open, waiting for the winds and the rain to come and pass, for even though the dripping had relented at last, dark clouds remained in the sky. A muggy, stormy heat had settled in like a warning.

Clark crouched under the yolk, took a hold of the straps and wrapped them around his hands.

“Come on, we’ve got to go.”

He made as if to pull. Pete opened wide eyes at him.

“I know you’re strong, man, but I think pulling a yoke is too much even for you.”

“We’ll find out,” Clark smiled easily, raising his hands and accommodating the straps over his shoulders.

His friends laughed, a little disbelieving, and set to the task of alternatively pushing and pulling the plough out of the mud so the unusual yoke could march forward. Freed, Comet followed them with the light and undisturbed gait of those who stroll while others strive. Pete could not help but notice.

“I swear guys, he’s looking smug.”

  


*

  


Pete closed the barn’s door behind them, the sound lost under the thunder that followed an earlier lightning. For a few seconds they stood unmoving, pressed against the wall and under the roof’s last few inches of protection. Above the town and fields, the sky had burst into a sudden waterfall, the raindrops so tight they formed a curtain embracing the world, warm and encompassing.

They shared a look before breaking into a mirthful run down the hill. The rain had cleared the streets of its usual crowd: there was plenty of room for a race. By the time they reached castle’s kitchen door, Jimmy’s face had taken a tinge not unlike that of his hair and Pete was wheezing so hard he sounded like he was whistling a tune. They stood outside, not quite ready yet to leave the pleasant watery glow of the afternoon, basking in the camaraderie so close to brotherhood that years of shared food, occupation and mischief had built. They felt at peace and at home.

True to its name, Smallville was an average sized burg, main town to a barely bigger fief. It lacked panache and decorum, and it invoked such a distinct feeling of belonging it pained Clark to even think about ever having to leave it. Even the short shadow of the castle that hovered over the three young men felt nurturing.

Clark watched his friends rely on the large sandstone walls for support, the young men’s abundant perspiration impossible to make out from the drenching of the rain.

“Are you going to join in?” Jimmy asked once they had regained part of their faculties.

The taller boy, who had lost himself in conflicted, palpitating thoughts of journey and adventure, the wall a cool and anchoring feeling beneath his stretched fingers, startled at the unexpected question. Pete, for his part, had no trouble following the non sequitur. His face lit up at the new subject.

“Oh man, you’d own them,” he said dreamily, recalling the glorious ploughing from earlier. “It’s been so long since the Kents’ last feat of arms!”

Clark furrowed his brows.

“You mean the tournament,” he enunciated slowly, the white clouds of his daydream slowly dissipating in the face of the queasy subject.

Exasperate, Pete punched his shoulder. Clark’s upper body swayed, giving into the blow. Sitting on his heels, Jimmy looked up at him with an expectant smile. Clark shrugged, uneasy. 

“I don’t really see the point, you know? Also, Ma wouldn’t like it.”

The young men cringed in unison, torn between disappointment and proper chastisement at the mere mention of Lady Martha. His hands hidden in the crease of his armpits, Pete kicked a rock.

“Too bad,” he mourned. “Luthor deserves to get taken down a peg or two.”

Jimmy looked at him, surprised.

“Why?” the younger boy asked, gesturing wildly as he spoke. “We’ve been at peace for so many years now, surely there’s no need-”

Pete snorted, shaking his head.

“Ten years is a long time. Wouldn’t be surprised if it made the Luthors grow itchy to prove their House in a fight now Lord Jonathan is growing too old to teach them some humility. No offence.”

Clark shrugged to show none had been taken and tilted his head.

“He can’t be so bad. Everyone’s been benefiting from the truce after all.”

Pete looked up, his eyes narrowed.

“He’s a snake. You watch out for yourself.”

Together they watched the rain fall and blur the universe, before the warm smell of bread fresh from the oven pulled them inside.

  


*

  


Unlike Bruce who rarely set a foot in Blüdhaven more than once a year, Dick had promptly taken to the liberating habit of finding refuge in the fortified manor for regular, if short, stays. The place showed the typical features of properties left in the heedful but tasteless care of servants.

He loved it.

The surrounding flora gone wild had taken possession of the main building’s walls, ivy spreading lush leaves and invasive roots in the natural cracks of the grey stones. An old oak tree had stretched its thick branches over a corner of the manor, the tips rasping against a window of the first floor. He had claimed the room as his the first time they visited, and made a show of climbing down into the garden every time he could not be bothered with the cold and dusty corridors.

In spite of the vulgar setting, the dependants and lower ranked nobles that made up the landlord’s suite could not help but whisper excitedly as they followed their host up the stairs. The greedy interest aroused at the prospect of an imminent tournament helped them dismiss the commonplace surroundings. They barely blinked at the housekeeper who greeted them, his skin of such a dark tan it looked like bronze.

Lucius inclined his head and guided them inside.

The manor, an old building built in late roman style, was not particularly grandiose. The ceiling’s height was of a low average, the windows, narrow, were unable to fully light the building even during the day. When the manor was housing guests, part of the wall candlesticks and more elaborate candelabra burned constantly in order to compensate for the light insufficiency, which was costly. All gathered in the same wing of the manor, the servants made sure to put out all the other candles on the absence of their master. Dick loved the resulting intimacy he was so acquainted with, and resented the sight of the many little flames already trembling in the hallway, unveiling the details of the rock, the leafy patterns of the windows’ and doors’ frames, the faces and creatures engraved in the pillars, so many little things he had learned through mindful explorations and that were suddenly taken from him, highlighted for the careless pleasure of men and women he despised.

Lucius excused himself as Alfred showed the guests to their rooms in his stead. Dick, who had never gotten around the fact he was now part of the nobility, discreetly detached himself from the group to offer the old man some help. Lucius was already heaving a chest out of the nearest cart by the time he reached him and he rushed to assist, a help the housekeeper welcomed with a smile. The boy was generous and strong; Lucius always made a point of sharing his homemade brews when he visited in a sign of appreciation.

He fanned himself with his hat once they were done.

“Thank you my boy. My old bones appreciate it.”

Dick snorted inelegantly at his words, leaning his hips against the cart. He raised the hem of his shirt to wipe some sweat off his face.

“Nonsense, your bones are fine. You just can’t resist some emotional blackmail,” he grinned, dragging the cloth one last time over his upper lip. His face slackened into a soberer attitude. “And I like you a lot more than these morons anyway.”

Lucius chased a fly away.

“It would be unwise to underestimate the nobles’ influence,” he said. “They can help build empires - and destroy them.”

Dick’s lips curled in distaste.

“They are not worth the soil they tread.”

He spit on the ground. Behind the waving hat, Lucius’ smile grew painfully compassionate.

“I thought the culprit of your parents’ death had already paid,” he reminded not unkindly. “Didn’t you witness his hanging?”

The boy drew himself up with indignant fury.

“Zucco should have been hanged years before! They turned a blind eye to his previous crimes because of his money,” Dick snarled - his voice broke. “Had they not, it never would have happened!”

Unflappable, Lucius carried on fanning himself.

“Those are your thoughts, and they’re respectable,” he granted with a gentle smile. “But you’re old enough not to let them get to your head. Maybe someone else would have gotten rid of your parents in Zucco’s stead hadn’t he existed. It’s not a mere man who killed them, but a whole organisation. Things are not as black and white as we’d like to think,” he laughed to himself and lowered his hat, opening his arms wide to drag the youngster’s attention to his unusually brown skin. “I’ve seen a lot on my peregrinations, witnessed things you would believe are merely ravings of an old man. But believe this: power corrupts, Dick. And the first step to corruption is to think you are one step above others.”

Dick did not insist. He shrugged, uneasy. The housekeeper gave him a few beats of unpleasant rumination before patting his shoulder and taking hold of one of the horses’ bridles.

“I don’t like the way Bruce uses his power,” Dick admitted at last, startling Lucius who had thought the conversation had been over.

The older man’s hold on the bridle tightened briefly. This time, the smile did not reach his eyes and when they creased, his lids evoked worry instead of fond amusement. He shook his head.

“Come on, we’re not done here.”

The boy sighed and hopped away from the cart. Together, they unharnessed the horses and proceeded to haul the luggage into the hall. In the kitchen, they found a cloth on which they wiped their sweaty hands. When Lucius threw it at Dick’s face without a warning, the boy caught it with a surprised yelp. The older man watched him fumble with the cloth and smiled, truthfully this time.

“You up for some cider?”

  


*

  


Stepping inside the dovecote sometimes felt like an exquisite regression into the womb; beneath the intruder’s feet, the fallen feathers formed a soft cushion to all slights. As a child, Clark used to huddle up in a corner of the room. He would breathe deep into the earthy smells of dry droppings and warm dirt that grounded his daydreams of flying and wide empty spaces.

A pigeon house could feel claustrophobic to any wingless being. The small embrasures at the top of the building allowed only for little rays of light that had trouble reaching the darker ground floor. The walls, which might at once appear protecting, were just as well confining. Now Clark was older he found himself increasingly giving into the urge to race out and away. The wind would howl past his ears as he tore down the slope with a thrilled grin, the closest he could come to making his dream of flying come true.

Clark cautiously closed his hands around the body of the fledgling, shutting his eyes to concentrate on the palpitating twitches of the bird.

He was a natural, his teachers had claimed, at once awed and afraid as they watched him take to sword fighting like he was born for it. And yet the moment the heir of Kent bit his lower lip in candid satisfaction at his own talent, they forgot what a rattling sight such innate killing skill should have been. He was a warrior indeed, they decided much to Lord Jonathan and Lady Martha’s consternation, and also their rightful protector. Every thrust of his sword, every parry of his shield claimed it.

The feathers were tender beneath his loving hold, he noticed. The bird cooed in appreciation.

The rusty sound of the door went up, startling a few birds into flight. Clark parted his hands to allow the fledgling the freedom of following them. The pigeon’s movements were clumsy before they were successful, and on the way up a talon caught the top of a rough thumb.

Lady Martha brought her son’s hand to her eye level, satisfied to see no scratch could be found on the forever unmarred skin. She patted his forearm before letting go. Clark looked up, closing his eyes when a breeze from the upper embrasures raced for the door left open. She smiled and followed his example.

The sunbeams from above warmed their upturned faces, dancing spots on their lowered eyelids.

“I have to say, you were hard to find,” she informed. “Without reason, of course; I should have known you’d be here.”

She opened an eye to look sideways at him. He shrank a little, sheepish, and rubbed the back of his head.

“I lost track of time. Sorry.”

She ruffled his hair.

“We’ve been invited to join the parade tomorrow,” she said softly, tucking a lock behind his ear that fell back as soon as she let go of it. “And to the following banquet.”

Clark’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“But we’re not joining the tournament...” he recalled. “Or are we?”

Surely he would have been told, had he been expected to bear the golden pelican of his family’s coat of arms during the competition. He would rather he bloodied his sword than his father Jonathan, whose fighting skills, renowned in past years, had been significantly compromised by a knee injury.

Lady Martha sighed, adjusting the white veil that covered her head and fell over her shoulders.

“No we aren’t. It would not be fair to them should you join. But as Lord Wayne’s closest neighbours, it’d be too great an insult to decline his invitation to the parade. We have a small manor my dear, we have nothing to fear of their greed.”

Clark deflated and shuffled, scratching his left ankle with his other foot.

“All right then.”

“Good,” she nodded, lowering her eyes. “Good…”

Half-dried muck had caught the edge of her shoes; she rubbed them against the hay.

  


*

  


The water city of Blüdhaven, the Wayne neighbouring town to the Kent’s Smallville, was renowned for its many bridges. A passing pilgrim once compared it to the foreign Brugge of Flanders. Due to the coast’s proximity, the place was very sensitive to the rise in water levels that came with spring. The buildings stretched tall and thin through three floors in order to rise above the water in case of floods. Some edifices extended over the river around which the city was built, planting thick pillars into the clear water. When the crowd gathered in the streets to watch the parade, the towering buildings became ominous, long shadows blending the many faces looking up at the passing knights.

Pressed by the crowd against the wall behind, Dick’s world had narrowed to the smell of sweat, dirt and mud. Over the many tufts of hair clogging his vision stood the powerful necks of the parading horses, like sea serpents in an ocean of people. The torsos of the riders followed, bright and proud, expensively coloured tunics over their shiny chainmail. The destriers’ nostrils flared, their teeth flashed in a show of barely tamed wildness. Bruce’s mad mount in particular threatened to kick and bite anyone who walked too closely, thus leading the group by many steps ahead.

Dick watched in curiosity as grey ears tilted forward advanced to the gait of a self-assured trot past the many other riders. The bay horse’s croup raised over the flock of spectators, not high enough to unfold the hind legs and show hooves, but a clear enough warning for the dapple grey horse to falter. Its rider seemed to urge it forward nonetheless; the grey mane twitched and resumed its progression. His mount foaming at the mouth and shoulders and shivering in frustration, Bruce raised an eyebrow at the new coming bishop. They seemed to exchange a few words; the bald man smirked and slowed down with a pull to his reins. The Earl of Gotham assessed him and finally pulled his horse to the right with a huff of irritation. The bishop reached his side with evident satisfaction. Dick saw the dark horse’s head straighten in the characteristic introduction of a rear up; above him, Bruce furrowed his brows. He closed his legs around the heavy-breathing flanks, controlling, commanding, and from a nasty-tempered creature the horse became a demure-looking pony.

Swatting pointy elbows away from his ribs, Dick tried to discreetly get closer to the riders. Bruce caught sight of him and threw him a sharp, quick glance as he marched by. The boy lowered his head and tightened his hood around his face.

Behind the unexpected duo leading the parading knights, a blue-clad noble perched on a heavy horse watched the exchange with just as much fascination.

  


*

  


Blüdhaven was not supposed to have the means for a meal the likes of which the Gothamites were used to, yet somehow Alfred and Lucius managed to throw together a banquet such as the manor had not hosted in a very long time. Dick had not even known they possessed a whole set of silverware at the disused property. He suspected they did not, truthfully, and that Alfred somehow managed to acquire it in what little time he had been given, the span so small the feat was nothing short of supernatural. A local bard distracted them with tales of the town and legends from the nearby forest of Sherwood. In between turning the roast over the fireplace, Lucius watched over the temporary servants in charge of their master’s guests.

The dark meat tasted of delightfully overwhelming black pepper, and coated in an apple sauce tinged with peppery cinnamon the pork glistened under the many candle lights. Dick looked forlornly at what remained of his chicken leg before throwing it over the table. Lucius’ dog, a huge dark coated mastiff, leaped from under the table to catch it into its frightening jaws. The bone shattered audibly under the wide teeth.

Slightly hunched at the unpleasant company, Dick watched a delicate woman with rosy cheeks and elegant fingers lean into Bruce’s space, a hand touching his in an affectation of absent-mindedness. The Lord laughed his throaty holler of illusive happiness, the one which made Dick’s stomach twist and, late at night and into the wine, brought tears to his eyes. Bishop Luthor, for that was the identity of the grey rider, patted Bruce`s shoulder as if they were old friends. He motioned a servant:

“More wine!”

Alfred, after a sharp look at his master whose eyes had flashed in annoyance at his guest’s familiarity, served them until it overflowed. And they seemed happy, the Lords, their hands in the tender insides of the bread, food grease up to their elbows and wine dripping from their fingers.

The nameless Lady approached Bruce once more, and Dick felt a shiver run up his spine when her perfidious eyes reached his.

“I did not see your boy at the parade,” she commented airily.

She was married, but the man who so shamefully was her husband looked away, smiling with his mouth and thundering pathetically with his eyes. Her clothes were refined, her skin covered the way a lady of her lineage was meant to dress; her striking hair not unlike a waterfall of gold in the sunset was demurely dressed by a green veil. Such proper attire indeed, belied only by the beguiling demeanor she engaged in.

Bruce laughed again and touched her shoulder. Dick did not miss the quicksilver narrowing of his eyes in warning before he answered.

“My boy had other things to see,” he grinned. “People to do. Or is it the other way around?” he reached for his cup of wine as a distraction, his hand brushing against her breast on the way. Her lips formed an ‘o’ of pleased surprise. “He doesn’t like to lose time with the boring occupations of his elders.”

“Oh, but we’re having so much fun aren’t we?”

Bruce looked past the gorgeous copper hair undulating around face, the vivid red of her precious lips and into the emerald green of her eyes, and felt like sneering. He set back his cup of wine on the table and opened his arms wide.

“My friends!” he called out; he had none. “My friends-”

Dick excused himself from the table and left.

  


*

  


Clark watched the other guests around him, outsider in this world of sharp wealth and deadly beauty. He wanted nothing more than to escape, fast enough that his lungs hurt, and meet with his friends to steal freshly baked bread from the kitchen and go roll in the grass like the children they were not supposed to be any longer. No more comfortable than him, although maybe better at concealing it, his parents sat among the older nobles. Lady Martha pressed a delicate hand to her husband’s arm in order to soothe his darkening mood and avoid diplomatic troubles, which Bishop Luthor seemed to find hilarious. There was something deliberate about his words, something needling. His eyes were cunning and bright, cruel in the way of savants obsessed with the truth, because the truth often was. They spoke of cleverness and knowledge, but also of the single-minded focus he was reputed for when looking into the complex riddles which he devoted his free time to or playing chess against a rare worthy opponent. 

The bard had taken to humming before the feasting nobles. Note by note, the music he strummed from his lute gave an end to the surrounding cacophony.

Lulls in such banquets did not always imply the time had come for end of the fest. More often than not they were a time for digestion, and conversations that involved more civilised exchanges than yells, shouts, and sloshing wine. Bishop Luthor leaned over the table, crossed his fingers, set his chin upon the resulting fleshy bridge and stared, impassive. Clark felt himself straightening uneasily, as if caught with his hand in the biscuit jar (which had happened to him once - he broke the biscuit jar snatching his hand out).

“Now if it isn’t the famous Kent heir,” Luthor drawled long and slow. He was bald in a way that should have been ridiculous on such a young man but was instead eerily handsome. “Tales of your abilities have reached even me. Granted, we do not live so far away, but I am not usually interested in the gossip of common men,” he leaned even further. “But then you are not common. Are you?”

Clark felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. That was it. That was the moment- Lady Martha made a discreet and placating gesture under the table. Luthor smiled like a snake and ignored both parents; he only had eyes for the son.

“I have to say I am quite curious about you, about what you can do. I keep saying such skills cannot possibly be, but my servants insist on contradicting me. It is quite upsetting,” his eyes gleamed like those of an excited child. “You must share. You are going to show us, aren’t you? To join the tournament?”

Lord Kent huffed in disbelief before his wife’s warning gaze.

“Will you?”

Luthor turned away from the Kent heir to fix the current lord. He laughed, throaty and mocking.

“Me? Please, I’m a man of the cloth,” he noted, eyes narrowed to calculating slits in spite of his apparent amusement. Clark frowned at him but stayed silent. “My men are more than good enough for it. If they win, I win. If they die… well, they die. It is the true nature of man after all.”

Years later, having become the official Lord of Smallville in his father’s stead - God bless Jonathan’s soul - and since then engaged in a sick rivalry with Bishop Luthor that would carry over the years till death, and maybe even beyond, Clark still would not be able to say exactly what prompted his next words. He surprised everyone and himself by saying:

“I will be joining.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
From the narrow window of the room Clark watched the hill below. Smoke from the countless campfires blazing all over the field hovered over the camp, along with dust from the never-ending comings and goings of nervous squires mindful of their knights’ accommodations; a thick fog had formed which blurred the horizon. His gaze followed a bony mule and its young rider cross the place, zigzagging past men and animals alike, until the couple disappeared behind the foliage and a pair of disgruntled chickens ran in the opposite direction.

Clark looked away from the window to meet his father’s eyes. They both looked at Lady Martha who was kneeling on the floor, in the process of extracting a wide blue tunic with the golden pelican in piety from an old precious chest. She stood up slowly, reverently, and spread it out over the mattress. The rich, expensive tinge of lazuli shone brightly in the daylight, beautiful and deep against the bland tone of the bedding. The color had been chosen during the first crusade, when their family’s mere name had been enough to drive away potential enemies; dyes from the kingdom of Egypt were then imported to the British Islands specifically for the purpose.

Now, though, maintaining such expensive coats of arms proved more of a financial burden than anything else.

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Jonathan spoke at last, his eyes lingering on his wife before he looked up at his son.

Martha pointedly flattened the creases of the cloth with her open palm and pinched her lips so she would remain quiet. She applied herself with painful purpose. Clark furrowed his brows stubbornly. His mother gave the clothing one last pat before straightening up. Jonathan joined her halfway, entwining their fingers reassuringly.

“You do not have to, Clark,” she insisted heatedly, before her husband raised a hand to gently massage her nape.

Their son gave them an uncomprehending look. 

“Luthor disregards us. He needs to be taught his place.”

Martha looked away, a hand pressing against her mouth as if to silence herself. Her eyes flashed, both worried and relenting.

“I don’t care what you youngsters think, how glorious this all seems to you. People die in tournaments too. Remember this. And there is nothing glorious about death, Clark, do not ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  


*

  


A step, a slide, a kick to the ground. Agglomerated dust rose up to knee-level and fell like crashing waves, clouding blurred feet and legs. The sand felt crunchy between gritted teeth. The air, humid from the early morning’s rain, gave all signs of a fresh afternoon.

Clark abided by an entirely different weather, a stormy heat that flushed his skin with pleasure and satisfaction. His heart beat fast and hard to the tune of his excitation. There were gasps as his adversary lunged too slowly, rooting when he narrowly avoided a hit he could have prevented in the first place. The attention of the crowd was inebriating. His strength and his skills, for so long carried as a useless gift-curse, were at last given proper recognition. The men, women and children watching him did not ask for him to hide, to fold, to give; on the contrary, they exulted in his exhibition, his larger than life stance, his selfish fight for acknowledgment. His body screamed “Watch me!”, and the crowd watched. “Applaud!”, and the crowd applauded. “Cheer!”, and the crowd cheered. For him and him only.

He ducked a swipe of his faltering adversary’s sword, jumped away as if the heavy plates of iron protecting his torso and legs felt no heavier than a bird’s plumage. The duel resumed. They moved, thrust and parry, side-step, a swirl. The crowd narrowed to colourful blurs and uneven shapes, an anonymous presence rooting for him among all, and for them he dragged out the fight at length. There was ridicule to the other knight’s weary motions. Clark spared a glance to the nobles’ tiers.

“Do you see me?” he thought.

Among his peers, Bishop Luthor held his gaze with something like condescension on the curl of his lips. He leaned to whisper something in Lord Wayne’s ear; the other man eased the exchange by tilting his torso towards him.

The crowd gasped and Clark hastily focused back. In the spur of the moment details flashed past his eyes. Instinct kicked in, the world slowed. He saw. The embroidery of velvet shone golden. The soft grains of wood rose like small mountains. The green of a ring’s emerald hid another dimension behind the gem’s many facets. Over his head descended a glinting blade. He saw the sunbeams hit the metal, the blinding circle of sheen rise and set like a miniature sun. He felt it warm his skin. The other knight’s face contorted in the desperate energy of the last strike.

When he turned and slashed his adversary’s gut, bloody red engulfed Clark’s vision.

  


*

  


Jimmy helped Clark out of his armour with quick, jerky motions.

“That, er- That was amazing.”

“That was monstrous,” Clark cut in sharply, disengaging himself from the rest of the tainted breastplate. It fell to the ground with a clatter.

His face was white, his gaze haunted. He drew in a shuddering breath and let his friend take care of the greaves while he stood still and cold as death. Blood had dried on his face, blood that was not his, blood that he had spilled. He could hear the cheers of the crowd outside, the banging of a drum and tambourines, the gentle screech of fiddles and the birdlike notes of recorders. There were claps, the sounds of feet pounding on the dirt. The voices were blurred. Dancing, these people were dancing.

“God, do not let my parents see me like this,” he prayed fervently, looking for all the world like a hunted stag, wide eyes and shivering skin.

He raised his head to find Jimmy on the other side of the tent looking at him with hesitation in his eyes. The helmet he held appeared rusty; Clark refused to acknowledge any other reason for the steel to be dyed red. Worrying at his lower lip Jimmy hesitated, torn between landing a comforting hand on his friend’s forearm and keeping his distance, fingers shaky around the gory headgear.

The flap of the tent moved and they both jumped in surprise and nerves.

“Oh God,” Jimmy murmured faintly, expecting Lady Martha and her husband.

The ever so regal Lord Wayne entered the tent, closely followed by a sullen-looking dark-haired boy. He let his eyes roam around the place as if looking for hidden occupants, before nodding his salute to the two he could find. He extended a hand and gestured at the exit:

“Leave us,” he told Jimmy, barely sparing a glance to the boy by his side when a wry snort escaped the later.

Jimmy blinked, alarmed, and looked up to seek Clark‘s agreement. He never got it; his closed fists held along his thighs, his friend seemed unable to detach his gaze from the earl. His lips were sealed so tight they appeared white.

Wayne rolled his eyes and waved his hand once more.

“I haven’t got all day,” he said. “Dick-”

Dick, as was the boy’s name, nodded and grabbed Jimmy’s sleeve in order to herd him out. There was a strength to his hold, unexpected for one so young, that told Jimmy he would not think twice about dragging him should the squire attempt to resist.

Bruce watched them leave with a cold, impassive face. Then, once they were alone:

“What are you waiting for?” he asked peevishly, walking to a wooden stool on which stood a basin of water.

A gargle escaped Clark’s throat: “You-” but before he could form proper words of fury Wayne raised an index he shook from left to right, his back to the younger man.

“Ah, ah, ah, no recriminations. I’m not the one who held the sword,” he took the cloth hanging over the edge of the basin, soaked it and wringed it hastily. “Catch.”

Clark caught. He stared down at the cloth in his hand uncomprehendingly. Bruce gestured at his own face, impatient.

“Clean yourself.”

Clark did. Bruce nodded, satisfied.

“You fought well. Don’t let Luthor get to you,” he looked over his shoulder. “The Lords are waiting to congratulate you. Make sure you’re up to it. Do not make me regret coming.”

He left, the flap of the tent swaying in his trail.

  


*

  


There were reasons a man such as Lex Luthor could indulge in the whim of rejecting a fight without fearing his peers’ retribution. A moderately skilled fighter in his youth, he was regardless versed enough in the manipulation of human minds that of fear of his sharp tongue no one had really dared call him out upon his disinterest in the path of the sword out. He used to blind his opponents with rage thanks to mocking words, and struck with a sneer to deliver if not the killing blow, at least the winning one. Luthor had made an art of fighting dirty and schmoozing the crowd into worshipping him for it.

Not to say he did not enjoy the heat of a tournament. Only, whereas his fellow Lords looked to quench their thirst for blood, he settled for watching the pettiness of humankind like a god among insects. Up until the moment Bruce Wayne disappeared from the stand, his tense jaw barely hidden behind a forced smile, he had believed he had found a kindred spirit in the elusive Earl of Gotham. Had he been any more interested in human interactions, Luthor might have felt like mourning the loss of a friend.

“Wonderful duel the Kent heir provided us, hm?” he welcomed his host back lazily, raising his glass of wine. “Too bad you missed the start of the festivities. Did you not enjoy it?”

Wayne started to laugh, bright and mirthful, and babbled something about creamy white thighs dragging his attention away. Luthor poured himself a goblet of wine, not even feigning interest. He leaned against the table and took a long measured sip, his gaze cool and calculating, a strange smile to his lips Bruce knew better than to get angry about. There was something sardonic, condescending, in the way he was being watched.

Wayne’s face shifted and the emptiness of his gaze gave way to something shrewd and distrusting. Luthor’s smile grew slowly. He set a paternal hand on the earl’s wrist and watched it rest there like a brand.

“Oh, am I pleased to finally meet you, my Lord.”

Bruce disengaged himself to loop an arm around his shoulders. He grinned emptily.

“You will not play me as easily as you did Kent,” he chuckled, clasping the shoulder beneath his hand. “Choose your battle carefully.”

Luthor clinked their glasses together as if he had no other care in the world.

“Do not worry, I am nothing if not a smart man,” he said, downing his glass.

That, and the Earl of Gotham already tainted by death was of absolutely no use to him. The Kent heir, on the other hand, for so long protected and hidden in the depths of his small fief like a jewel in its case, he had an interest in exposing to the harsh sullying world. 

He had to concede Wayne played his hand well though, when the youngest Kent came back a little pale, a little wary, but smiling, Wayne’s boy by his side distracting him from too dark thoughts with his wild gesturing and excited speech.

  


*

  


Alfred watched his master undress with shaky motions that spoke a thousand words of a violent inner struggle. He followed him past the rooms that formed his chambers, closing the many doors behind them and picking up the items of clothing that were discarded on the way. When they reached the master bedroom, the servant stepped inside and bolted the door. Neither he nor his master appeared surprised to find Dick already there, perched on the back of a chair and biting into an apple. The window was open, the curtains flowing.

“So, what now?” the boy grinned.

Bruce cast him a warning look, extracting himself from his coat until he was left with only his linen shirt to cover him. On the other side of the room, Alfred cared for the flames and tested the heat of the cauldron left over the fireplace. Bruce stepped into the wooden tub in the middle of the room and sat down.

“The water’s a little warm sir.”

“Just pour it Alfred,” Bruce sighed, discarding his tunic.

He reclined in the barrel, tight-lipped. Dick watched the exchange with a puzzled frown and jumped off the chair, the apple core awkwardly held in his hand.

“Did I do wrong?” he asked, a little bewildered. “Because I can sure tell you I did exactly what you told me to, and Clark, I mean Kent, I mean he’s like awesome and nice you know, and he didn’t mess up. He was good. But I did good too.”

Alfred smiled kindly and patted his head, taking the core from him and adding it to the fire. Bruce did not answer, lost in thoughts. He soaked absently in the barrel, raised a hand to brush the hair away from his face. He cursed.

“What have I done?!”

Water splashed when he punched the side of the tub. Neither servant nor ward reacted to the outburst, nor did they wait for an explanation. The Earl of Gotham had quirks the few people close to him quickly learned to recognize and ignore. Bruce was a mistrusting mind who rarely shared the whole process behind his thoughts with the rest of the world.

“What do I care what happens here?” he mumbled to himself, raising his left arm to allow Alfred access as the servant soaped him. “It’s Gotham I’m supposed to be protecting. Everything is about Gotham.”

The soap was dark in Alfred’s hands, and grey foam ran up to his elbows. He rubbed Bruce’s shoulder one last time and cast Dick a dissuasive look as he switched sides to wash his master’s other arm.

“But I like it here,” the boy intervened nonetheless, a stubborn streak to his vehement voice. Bruce went silent. “And I like him. I think you did good.”

The impassive Lord stared straight ahead before shooing his servant’s ministrations and rinsing efficiently. He climbed out, wrapping himself in a linen towel.

“It’s your turn,” he told Dick with his back to him. “Have Alfred tend to the wounded man once you’re done to make sure he gets proper treatment. And avoid Luthor at all costs. I may have not only ruined any chance at an alliance but also made a new enemy with this stunt.”

He unlocked the door and walked out. Wet footprints were left on the stone in his wake. The boy stared at the slowly closing door and half startled when Alfred touched his shoulder.

He undressed and allowed himself to be led to the barrel where still lukewarm water awaited.

  


*

  


The day had faded into a chilly night, an occurrence made difficult to acknowledge inside the manor by the roaring fireplace whose long flames lit the reddened faces of the revellers. Clark smiled tightly at the congratulating nobles surrounding him, narrowly avoiding spilled wine as one of them leaned over his shoulder before sauntering away with something of a leer. A cheerful gleeman hopped in front of him and improvised a short ode to his skills on his harp. Unsettled, Clark glanced around the room to distract himself and had to promptly look away with a blush of shame and resentment when he met Luthor’s satisfied smirk at the other end of the table. The chicken roast tasted like ashes in his mouth.

He felt the brush of a hand on his back and looked up. His mother gave him a sympathetic look. In the middle of the room, the minstrel bowed in thanks at the many cheers and applauses that followed his performance and proceeded to play a lively farandole imported from warmer lands. 

“I hope the festivities are up to your expectations,” a voice on Clark’s left said, making him jump in surprise. He was not used to being startled; he usually heard people’s commotions from afar. “And worthy of your son’s talent in the arena, of course,” the earl finished easily, addressing Lady Martha.

Bruce Wayne grinned at them, his gaze inscrutable. Jonathan’s stool rattled against the tiles as he started to stand, enraged, before his wife none to gently pulled him down by the wrist into a more civilized attitude. She smiled wanly at the Earl of Gotham.

“Everyone has been absolutely lovely, thank you,” she lied through her teeth.

A snicker escaped Wayne, who seemed just as taken aback by his own reaction as the Kents. He quickly recomposed himself with a lopsided smile.

“There is no need to be quite so polite,” he chuckled. “Luthor hasn’t tried to be very discreet after all.”

Clark, who had been settling his nerves by playing with his food - and wasn’t it telling that his mother didn’t comment on it - threw a half-eaten chicken leg back on his plate with a huff of disgust.

“You think you have?” he hissed, absent-mindedly taking his mother’s hand in his when she tried to soothe him and pushing it away. He did not want to be comforted; he was angry, and rightfully so. “Been discreet?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Me?” he laughed, spreading his arms wide and wriggling his eyebrows. “I’m the epitome of discretion.”

The heir of Kent shook his head hastily and waved an all-inclusive hand at the surroundings.

“Not you you. You. You all,” Clark explained clumsily. “You enjoy it. This.”

Dancers had started forming a circle for a round and a few maids giggled excitedly, swatting away wandering hands with delighted blushes. A smile still plastered over his face, Bruce shrugged, palms turned heavenwards.

“Isn’t that the point of a party?”

“I wasn’t talking about the party!” Clark exclaimed, slamming a hand against the table. Glasses jumped and a few goblets clattered.

Jonathan glowered back at the looks of curiosity they attracted, Martha’s polite look of reproach just as efficient in making sure no one dared approach them. Clark attempted to engage in a contest of stares with the Earl of Gotham, but Wayne blinked his ever vacant eyes, his lashes languid.

“All of this. The tournament. The blood,” Clark hissed. “This is all yours.”

Bruce raised his head to look down upon his nose at the younger man.

“Didn’t you know already?” he smirked. “I’ve been hosting it from the start, it is quite the late discovery to make.”

Clark stood up so fast he had to catch the edge of the table so it did not get knocked over. Mindful of his strength in spite of his rancor, he pushed past Lord Wayne, ignoring his mother’s call. Jonathan dragged her attention back to him with a touch to her shoulder blades and shook his head, dissuading her from following.

On the other side of the room, Luthor raised his glass at Bruce, who saluted back with a sharp toothy grin and a smooth bow and strode over to the dancers with a swirl.

  


*

  


A cold breeze whistled through the branches, prompting Bruce to wrap himself in a light coat before stepping out. He walked until his pointy shoes reached the edge of the garden’s stairs. Standing on the first step with his hands dangling by his sides, Clark did not flinch at his arrival. In spite of his thin clothing, he did not shiver either.

“My servant came to me with some information,” Bruce commented carefully. “The man did not die.”

On the other side of the garden and in the suffocating shadows of its elders, a young birch attempted to grow in vain. Clark stopped looking at it and glanced sideways at his host before blinking back at the tree. He shook his head.

“A pure matter of luck,” he said.

“A pure matter of skill,” the earl retorted with a huff, an impatient note creeping into his voice that belied the coolness of his tone.

The younger man shrugged.

“Not really.”

Bruce contemplated explaining he was not in the habit of making honest compliments, but that would involve diving too deep into who he was and who he acted as, and he figured stroking a virtual stranger’s ego was not worth it. Not this time.

“Are you going to drop out?” he asked instead.

Clark sighed. His body language spoke of weariness as he finally sat down on the stairs, more of a truce with gravity than a planned and controlled movement towards the ground.

“I wish.”

“You shouldn’t,” Bruce retorted.

The younger man looked up at him, surprised and too tired to either show or hide it. The resulting blankness was full of bitterness. 

“What you have - what you are - can be used. Should be used,” the lord added, his eyes lighting as he spoke. “Men spend years, whole lives attempting to become what you are. Do you know why?”

Clark shook his head disinterestedly, staring at his feet. Then at the stairs at his feet. At the grass below. And at last at the further grove. Bruce stopped in his tirade to look at him, his gaze piercing like that of a bird of prey. He shrugged and carried on.

“Because it is a skill they admire. A skill they respect. A skill they fear. And they want to be feared.”

“There is no point to being feared,” Clark interrupted.

He fumbled with the stone of the steps for an instant and detached a piece of rock from it. He raised his arm, straightened, hurled it away. Bruce looked at him in silence once more, stared into the darkness where the stone had disappeared.

“Make them afraid and they will never dare raise a finger against you. Show them who you are, what you are, and Luthor will never find allies to fight you.”

“What I am is not who I am,” Clark retorted heatedly. “I know it now. For twenty years my parents have told me so, and only now do I understand it.”

Hysterical laughing and singing and overall sounds of partying reached them from the manor. Bruce shifted his body weight, lowered his eyes, and listened to the howl of the wind. The night was dark, the moonlight almost absent. He set down the oil lamp he had been holding. The flames trembled in the wind but held on.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” Clark commented at some point.

The earl looked puzzled by his words. Clark pointed at him and then at himself with his thumb, and the older man seemed to understand. He sighed heavily.

“No I’m- No, no I’m not,” he admitted.

Things were left unsaid, hanging in the air, things he dared not admit even to himself. Things he just knew he had to do, had to be. Clark nodded absently, a sound of sympathy low in his throat that was drowned by the wind and the music inside. He fell silent, weeding the lonesome plants that had grown between the cracks of the stairs. The trembling notes of a carole reached them, a strong and cheerful choir of inebriated people accompanying the bagpipes and zithers of the minstrels.

Bruce sat by his side, his hands clasped in front of him.

“You should get back inside. You are tonight’s hero,” he said.

Clark hummed in agreement, and did not move.

  


*

  


“Are you sure you won’t take your helmet?” Jimmy insisted, following Clark around the tent with the now clean headgear. He polished it with his sleeve, as if to make it more inviting to his friend.

Clark smiled at him, self-assured, and shook his head. He attempted to slip into the tunic covering his chain mail but found himself struggling not to tear it apart. Jimmy let go of the helmet which fell heavily to the ground, and rushed to Clark’s side to help him get dressed. Standing in a corner of the place, Pete crossed his arms, watching them with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“I have to say I didn’t expect you to stay after last time,” he told Clark, both proud of him and a little wary. “You were quite shaken up.”

His friend shrugged carelessly then raised his arms so Jimmy could take care of the creases of the blue cloth.

“I can’t leave now,” he explained cryptically, spinning around in a slow motion while his friend eyed him with circumspection. “But I won’t harm anyone.”

Pete’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

“Yeah right, and how do you pretend to do it? Please don’t tell me you’ve made it into your mind you’d rather be killed than kill.”

“That is so not a good idea,” Jimmy sighed, throwing his arms in the air.

He seemed satisfied with the tunic and busied himself with the discarded clothing on the floor. He grabbed a few, attempted to fold them and gave up, throwing them over Pete’s face.

“Don’t worry,” Clark retorted vaguely, ignoring the resulting quarrel and rubbing his palms over the golden pelican on his chest. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure you don’t want the helmet?” Jimmy insisted, nudging said object with his foot while holding Pete’s hands at a distance from his ribs.

Clark shook his head once more in fond exasperation.

“I am. My shield and sword will be more than sufficient,” he said, ducking under the entrance of the tent and freezing.

Wayne showed all signs of having been waiting outside all along, leaning on a post of the tent’s structure with his arms and ankles crossed. Clark heard Jimmy’s sharp intake of breath and moved to conceal one man from the other. Bruce cast them a sideways look of utter smugness.

“Dick doesn’t understand it either,” he said. “Maybe you’re still too young, too.”

Clark grasped each side of the flap behind him, efficiently blocking the way to his friends pushing at his back inside of the tent. 

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked distractedly, kicking back at the inquisitive audience.

Judging from the twitch at the corner of his lips, the earl seemed to find the situation amusing. It was very probable he had planned the awkwardness and counted on it to be able to speak his mind without being interrupted.

“The tournament,” he articulated ever so carefully as if talking to a dense child.

Clark scowled and jerked when a foot hit the back of his knee. He glowered over his shoulder at the innocent-looking men behind.

“You both have this-” Bruce went on, trying to find the right words. “-this encompassing compassion. You don’t get that the tournament isn’t mere blind bloodshed; you don’t want to understand. But trust it. There is no better way of insuring petty fights between powerful men don’t bring war upon the innocent.”

Clark looked doubtful when he crossed his arms, barring the entrance with a foot.

“There are natural casualties in a tournament,” Bruce insisted. “This is how the nobles get the blood they lust for without any further death. No pillage, no rape, no famine. No war. Just the expected.”

“That is awfully cynical.”

Bruce laughed. “It’s called being pragmatic.”

He stared at Clark, his gaze assessing. Something in the golden pelican in his piety seemed to amused him - “Oh, I see,” he whispered, a soft narrowing of his eyes hinting at deeper thoughts. He extended a hand to tug at the neckline of the blue tunic and adjust it. What he saw seemed to satisfy him at last and he nodded, his face serious. He laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, squeezed.

“You’ll do good.”

Still hidden behind his friend’s massive build, Jimmy blinked once the earl had left with a mocking salute.

“When did you two get so chummy?” he whispered, ducking Pete’s attempt at slapping the back of his head.

Clark shrugged - “I wonder…” - and took his shield from Jimmy’s hands. From where they stood, they could hear the impatient crowd shouting his name.

  


*

  


The blue-clad duellist pushed his opponent’s sword away from his head and promptly proceeded to slam his buckler shield against the other knight’s helmet. The man staggered, stunned, and closed both hands around the hilt of a weapon become all-of-a-sudden too heavy.

“I’ll not ask again,” Clark discouraged, eyeing him carefully as they circled each other. “Withdraw.”

The man stumbled a few more steps and shook his head, both to try and clear his bedazzled mind and to refuse Clark. He raised his sword with a grunt; the heir of Kent sighed and charged. He avoided a weak swipe towards his stomach, brought the pommel of his sword against the older knight’s temple and caught him as he fell.

He lowered the unconscious knight to the ground. Dumbstruck, the crowd was torn between cheering or booing at the anticlimactic fight. In the stand, Lord Wayne scratched his chin with the back of his fingers, a small smile to his lips.

“Now this was unexpected,” he chuckled as would one who had perfectly expected it. “What do you think, Your Excellency?”

Luthor looked displeased, fingering a silver rosary with encrusted jades to distract himself from his frustration.

“I think you made a great mistake,” he enunciated, his tone sour and vaguely threatening. He relaxed minutely and carried on with a smooth smile. “But let it not be said I am a sore loser.”

Wayne smirked shortly, threw his head back and laughed, patting the bishop’s shoulder with heavy, clumsy paws. Lex’s upper lip curled in distaste; he wiped his clothes where he had been touched.

“Don’t worry my friend, I will not let it be repeated,” the Earl of Gotham guffawed, wiping invisible tears of amusement. He angled closer, lowered his voice into a rasp. “But let me tell you: you are a sore loser.”

The bishop stared at him impassively in spite of the disgracing insult, rapping the tip of his fingers against the armrests. His long nails tip-tapped a beat of outrage, tap-tap-tap on the wood. Bruce stood up and started clapping in the silence of the arena.

“That was excellent, absolutely excellent, really,” he proclaimed excitedly. “Bravo, as would say our Italian cousins. Bravissimo!”

The masses of villagers followed suit, stamping their feet and shouting; there were hysterical screams and whistling. Wild flower petals were thrown in the air, lost into the wind that cast them back among the crowd instead of reaching the winner they were celebrating. For their part, the nobles looked at their host in uncertainty, taking in his hilarity and Bishop Luthor’s open vexation. Wayne looked pointedly at his guest, waiting for him to follow his lead as was the custom, but Luthor stood immobile. A sneer twisted Bruce’s lips; Lex’s eyes opened fractionally before they narrowed like that of a cat.

“I suggest you choose your next actions carefully,” he warned smoothly, loosely twirling the rosary around his wrist.

He stared, a little disbelieving, as the Earl of Gotham waved a dismissive hand and turned his back to him, resuming his clapping with a wide smile for the people below.

“I see,” Luthor articulated to himself, standing up.

Only when Lex left did the other nobles dare applaud too, the sound growing with each clap until it became thundering. Sitting behind the earl, Lady Martha extended a discreet hand to touch his elbow. Bruce stilled his hands and turned to look down at her questioningly. Too busy cheering, the crowd carried on without his lead.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said. “And to thank you.”

A strange shadow crossed his features, dark and knowing. His smile came back with a vengeance, a little wild, out of place.

“As you should!” he exclaimed heedlessly. “Your son seems quite set on ridiculing our knights, it is upsetting. But please, do not thank me. This here, it is nothing; I am quite ashamed of myself truth to be told. Visit Gotham one of these days and I’ll make sure to host you properly.”

By his wife’s side Lord Jonathan frowned, slightly disconcerted.

“While we are very thankful for your hospitality-” he started slowly, unsure where to tread when dealing with the Earl of Gotham, at once knife-sharp and dull. “-I don’t think this is what my wife was referring to.”

Bruce’s eyes crinkled.

“Nonsense!”

In the arena, Clark had lifted his opponent in order to carry the still unconscious knight to his quarters. Two squires rushed to his side, their hands shaking with nerves, not daring approach him. He smiled kindly at them, lowered his burden to the ground so they could get their master rid of his armour, and picked the knight up again.

He looked up briefly at the stand. A dark-haired dame he had had the occasion of admiring from afar smiled softly at him, her beautiful blue gaze fixed on him.

Then his eyes met Bruce’s and he grinned : the tournament was over.


	3. Epilogue

“Are you really sure you’re going?” Dame Lois asked, crossing her arms and leaning her hips against the doorframe.

Clark, who had heard her footsteps approaching along the corridor with growing expectation, brightened even more at her presence. He finished folding his tunic and looked up from the chest before which he was kneeling.

“Of course,” he smiled, closing the latch with assured moves. “It’ll be an honour to maintain His church after all.”

He remembered his accolade, quite a few years ago. The humble church of Smallville had been fragrant with a mix of sandalwood and frankincense, the delicate smoke filling the building like an otherworldly veil. His father had touched his shoulders with the flat of the family sword, an old relic of their past glory when the Kents had been better warriors than farmers; there had been a slap that had hurt Lord Jonathan more than it had tingled the son, and an embrace by his mother. He remembered the vows, and his promises. He remembered the tournament.

Lois stared down at him, an eyebrow raised. He shook his head and stood up, offering his arm when he reached her side.

“Shall we walk?” he asked.

She pursed her lips and offered him a wry look, as she usually did when he behaved in a way she deemed ridiculously proper; nonetheless, she accepted the gesture and set her hand in the crook of his elbow. He led her to the gardens where the smell of fresh flowers and wild mint hung in the air, and sat her on a stone bench. He wiped his hands on the side of his thighs.

“Do you want something to drink?” he offered. “I can get it for you.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled his sleeve. He let himself be tugged.

“Just sit Clark, don’t be ridiculous. How long have we known each other now? Five, six years? Relax.”

He looked at her intensely and took her hands in his, gently caressing the tender skin of her palms with his bigger, rougher thumbs.

“I’ll never think any less of you with the passing of time, Lois. You’ll always be precious to me.”

She disengaged one of her hands with a kind smile and laid it against his cheek. He leaned into the touch, lowering his eyelids in contentment.

“I want to marry you,” he whispered, opening his eyes to stare straight into hers. The blue of his irises flashed, pure and bright.

She let go of him as if burned.

“Oh Clark…” she moaned, hiding her face in her hands. “Don’t do this to me.”

He grabbed her wrists, as if to prevent her from disappearing on him.

“No, please, listen to me-” he begged, urgent, lowering her hands.

Lois glowered proudly.

“You listen to me,” she interrupted, relaxing her arms so her friend would not feel quite so afraid she might leave. His hold loosened in apology. “You’re leaving on a crusade. Who knows how long it will last?”

He pressed the tips of her fingers to his lips, his breath a little shaky.

“I will make it back Lois, I promise you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she whispered sadly, tugging a lock of his hair behind his ear.

It didn’t stay; it never did. Lois sighed.

“How’s Bruce doing?” she asked.

He blinked, perplexed and thrown off track.

“What does Bruce have to do with any of this?”

“Is he going?” she insisted, absently twirling the lock between her fingers.

“Lois, I just proposed you,” he exclaimed, exasperate.

She stared at him imperiously.

“Is he?”

“No!” Clark shouted, throwing his arms up. “I don’t know! I don’t think so. He is kind of what you might call a free spirit.”

He winced, trying not to think too closely about his friend’s disrespect towards clergymen, the Pope included. Truth to be told, he spent half his time with Bruce trying to ignore the man’s arrogance towards the whole wide world. It seemed only a handful of people could count on his deference, among which Clark counted for some reason. Even the old servant Alfred was held in higher regard than the nobility swarming around the so-called Prince of Gotham.

Lois flicked the tip of his nose playfully.

“Did you ask him? Did you talk to him? Did you even think about who might take care of me while you were away?”

Clark hunched up his shoulders like a scowled child.

“I could ask Bruce,” he offered shyly. “He could make sure nothing happens to you while I’m gone.”

She looked halfway to throttling him - that, or to throwing her arms around his neck to hug him. Or both. One never knew with Lois.

“Bruce is going,” she told him sadly, patting his hand.

He gaped, stricken.

“He’s what?”

“Bruce is going, Clark,” she repeated softly, as if not to spook him. She pressed his hands in hers. “On the Crusade.”

They sat silent for a moment, their foreheads almost touching. Clark eyed the tufts of mint on each side of the garden’s paths. He used to steal some in-between meals with Jimmy and Pete so they could get to their chores with the fresh taste of the herb in their mouths. Many times before had he thought about offering some to Lois, sharing this piece of childhood with her. He had not dared. He should have.

“I have to go,” he admitted softly, slowly drawing himself up.

She let his hands slide past hers as they let go of each other and looked up at him with a soft, compassionate smile.

“Of course,” she said, her voice a small blessing in the wind.

  


*

  


The night had fallen by the time Clark reached Gotham, his well-paced mount, a chestnut named Animus, barely winded. Clark led him mechanically through the small sinuous streets of the city, the hooves making sharp clopping sounds on the pavement. The torch he carried formed eerie shadows on the walls, such as that of a centaur wherever he passed.

He pulled his reins, jumped off Animus’ back and grabbed the door knocker. He was not really surprised when a scowling dark-haired boy greeted him instead of Alfred; the household seemed to pay little attention to hierarchy at times.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for coming unannounced.”

Tim shrugged, walked back inside and closed the door without a word. Clark waited patiently for the gates to unbolt so he could walk his horse into the courtyard. The boy closed the doors behind him, the metal brushing against the beast’s croup who neighed in displeasure and trotted forward a few steps.

“Thank you,” Clark whispered, putting out the torch in a nearby barrel of undrinkable water.

“It’s fine. Bruce’s been expecting you,” Tim said a little hoarsely, taking Animus’ bridle and patting the inquisitive muzzle that tried to push into his sleeve. A brief smile curved his lips. “He’s in his study.”

Clark watched him caress the horse single-mindedly as if the animal was his only means of finding any comfort in this world.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Tim’s frown deepened even more, which the knight had learned to recognize as his way of repressing tears.

“Yeah, sure,” the boy lied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll take care of the horse. Go on.”

Clark ruffled Tim’s hair and laid a hand on the horse’s neck. He stroked the fur beneath his hand with a gentle smile towards Bruce’s youngest ward.

“His name’s Animus.”

“He’s beautiful,” the boy whispered back. “Are you leaving too?”

“Yes.”

The man squeezed his shoulder and walked inside, not even paying attention to the luxury of the hall’s decoration. He found Bruce in his study as expected, reclined in a low armchair with his legs stretched in front of him and a goblet of brandy dangling from his hand. At the sight of his friend the earl smiled something of a rictus.

“I wasn’t sure whether to expect you today or in the following days.”

“You could have told me,” Clark cut in impatiently.

Bruce huffed, not even pretending he did not understand.

“I didn’t get the occasion.”

Clark glowered at him for some time before sinking into the nearest chair with a sigh. He leaned with his elbows on his knees, rubbed his face in his hands.

“Why are you even going?” he exclaimed suddenly, slapping the armrests of his seat. The wood creaked ominously and he winced. “Sorry.”

“I’m an honest Christian, Clark. I was born sinful and I wish to atone in Jerusalem. Obviously.”

The other knight glared daggers at him.

“Don’t insult me Bruce,” he reproached. “I’d rather you didn’t tell me the truth and be honest about it than have you lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Bruce said with an ironic smile.

Clark rolled his eyes and thrust his arm forward. He wriggled his fingers. The earl took a quick sip of brandy before handing over the goblet. He closed his eyes, grasped the armrests to lower himself back into his seat and breathed in deeply. He expired even more slowly, his features distorted by the shaky light of the burning candles.

“I am an earl. The king asked,” he added reluctantly.

Clark hummed, half-believing, for the man had not yet been born who could pressure Bruce into doing something he did not want to. He downed what was left of the biting drink, set the goblet on the floor with a soft clop and stood up, dusting his clothes. He cleared his throat.

“Come on,” he prompted, holding out his hand. “Let’s get some air.”

Bruce clasped his forearm and let himself be pulled up.

  


*

  


Tim was nowhere to be found when they reached the stables. Clark fumbled to try and find the steel-striker usually left on the ledge of the window but Bruce didn’t wait for him to find it and light a fire. In the shadows, he threw a rug over the back of a tall, dark-coated horse his friend did not remember ever seeing before.

“Ace. He’s new,” Bruce introduced the destrier. “For the Crusade.”

Clark nodded. He pushed the torch into its bearer on the wall and, his hand freed, pointed his thumb at his own mount a few stalls away. The horse raised his head from the hay on the floor and snorted in his direction, shaking his tail.

“Animus will be coming with me too.”

Bruce pulled his horse out of the stables by the bridle, calmly waiting for Clark to finish saddling his. He grabbed each side of the saddle and kicked the ground, mounting without the help of his stirrups. The younger knight shook his head in amusement at the ostentatious display and followed him into the courtyard. The streets were silent apart from the sound of their horses’ hooves.

Clark realized they had not taken the torch. As if reading his mind, his friend shrugged.

“The moon will suffice,” he said.

The West Gate’s guards were quite reluctant to let them out so late at night but Bruce tilted his head up and measured them with a smirk, Ace pawing the ground in impatience beneath him, his skin shivering in the cool air.

“I’m your earl you morons,” he said, extending his hand to flaunt his signet ring. “You should be used to this by now.”

“We have orders,” a corpulent guard advanced.

He raised his palm in front of the darker horse’s forehead, blocking his way. The horse started foaming at the mouth, stomping in the dirt.

“Bullock, isn’t it?” Bruce grinned dangerously over his mount.

The guard stared back with a stubborn scowl, crossing his arms.

“So?”

Bruce rolled his eyes; his hand disappeared into the folds of his cape and came out holding a coin.

“So take this and open the doors, will you?”

Bullock obeyed triumphantly and gestured for the other guards to open the gates.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you.” He grinned, throwing the coin and catching it in the air.

“Likewise,” Bruce waved carelessly, spurring his horse. “Give Gordon my greetings, will you?”

The gates closed behind them with a clang, and they found themselves out in the open fields surrounding the City of Gotham.

“You indulge that man.” Clark commented, walking them past a few sleeping cottages.

Bruce shrugged, holding his reins firmly as Ace attempted to gallop. He reduced the horse to a nervous trot, head held high and nostrils shivering in the breeze. 

“He’s harmless. Loyal where it counts, and corrupt when it doesn’t,” he said. “Gordon trusts him.”

“And you trust Gordon,” Clark deduced.

The earl nodded, allowing his mount to stretch its legs and quicken its pace. Animus followed closely behind, ears tilted forward in expectation.

“I trust Gordon with my city,” he admitted.

“What about Dick, and Tim?”

Bruce snorted softly and Ace fell into a short canter, shaking his head against the hold of the reins.

“I’m sending them to Blüdhaven with Lucius. They don’t have what it takes to handle Gotham.”

Clark frowned.

“You underestimate them.”

The earl shook his head, gathering his mount under him with a firm press of his legs.

“You don’t know how it is Clark. This city, it changes you. Like a stain to the soul, it taints you. I don’t want to expose them to it while I’m not there to help them through the consequences.”

They fell silent, the heaves of their horses rising in the night air. The grass and dry leaves crackled beneath the hasty hooves, small branches falling broken under the trampling.

“Is this the real reason you’re going on the Crusade?” Clark asked.

“Why not?” The earl snorted softly. “After all, there are many reasons to go and slaughter foreigners. Self-pity must be among them.”

“Bruce-” Clark sighed, raising his eyes heavenwards as if to look for some moral support. “You can’t really believe the things you say sometimes.”

“I used to believe the things you say. Now though I can barely recognize the boy who refused to spill blood in a tournament in the grown-up man who can’t wait to kill men in battle.”

Clark glowered, spurring his horse until Animus’ head was ahead of Ace’s and he could look the earl in the eye.

“What’s this about me wanting to kill men in battle? Don’t you find it quite ironic coming from someone who does not believe in the need of a crusade and is going anyway?” He hissed, urging his horse forward when Ace attempted to regain the lead. “I made vows to serve His church. It does not mean I have to enjoy it.”

Bruce pulled on the reins to slow down his horse who snorted in annoyance. Clark had to stop Animus in order to look back at his friend, his eyebrows raised in surprise at the unexpected change of pace.

“I’m looking for something,” The earl admitted reluctantly, allowing Ace some freedom of movement. “I just don’t know what. Yet.” 

Clark spurred his horse and nodded in understanding, though what he had understood was obscure to Bruce who was not sure he himself comprehended his own motives.

“I asked Lois to marry me,” the younger knight shared as a gesture of trust.

The earl could not help but snicker. For years now he had watched his friend court the dark-haired lady. A strange friendship had grown between the knight and his dame, a mix of chivalric adoration and more down-to-earth fondness whose development had been constantly frustrated by Clark’s almost obsessive adherence to the codes of courtship. Lois had found it adorable at first, downright insulting at some point; then, at last, she had learned to live with it and appreciate the knight’s deference towards her. Bruce had not been surprised when their relationship had settled for something more akin to that of a brother and his sister than that of two lovers.

“That must have gone well,” Bruce commented.

“Oh shut up,” Clark smiled. “When we come back, if she has waited, then maybe, again-” He shook his head, hair ruffled by the breeze; he gestured towards their horses. “Shall we go? I think they’re warmed up enough.”

Bruce extended his reins. For a moment, surprised by the lack of tension, Ace staggered and slowed down. He brought his body weight to his hinds, engaged in slow canter strides as if hovering over the ground.

Then he bolted, Animus and his rider following by his side like a mirror shadow, their capes stretched behind them and flapping in the wind.


End file.
